Chapter Text
~ Prologue ~
A glimpse of pale, slender hands and a long wooden brush.
A swath of color on a canvas background.
A flash of a peaceful night sky, the millions of stars twinkling behind the wisps of dark cirrus clouds.
His eyes opened slowly, squinting from the beams of sunlight flooding the room. His morning routine wouldn’t allow him to just lay there. It was time to get up and go about his day. He rose to sitting, rubbing the final remnants of sleep from his eyes. Running his hand through his dark hair he stood and walked toward the bathroom.
Strands of honey colored hair ran through his mind, providing an unwanted sense of Deja Vu. He had been having this same dream for weeks on end. The same hands holding the same paintbrush. The same night sky. The same hair that he desperately wanted to run his hands through, long, sleek, and deliciously thick.
He blinked at himself in the mirror and shook himself from his daydream, repeating the same motto he had been since this dream started. Dreams do not matter when reality threatens to drown you out. He stepped into the shower before turning it on, choosing instead to let the chill of the water act as a wakeup call. Dreams, he thought, were laughable things, unworthy of his time and energy. His reality, however, was starting to become obsessed with this reappearing sequence of nightly hallucinations.
Shampoo, rinse. Conditioner, body wash, rinse.
Rinsing his hair from the conditioner, he silently hoped that one of his two roommates was awake and had made coffee. He also silently knew that this was unlikely. It was a Saturday morning which meant that last night had taken its toll on all three of them. His headache was – thankfully – limited, but he had limited his alcohol intake to at least some degree. Azriel and Cassian had decidedly not chosen this particular route. They would be asleep for hours still, he was sure.
He stepped out of the shower, wrapping himself in a towel, and walked back to his room. The pristine outfit he had laid out for himself before going out last night sat on his dresser, waiting. He dressed quickly, knowing that despite the weekend, his job waited for no one. Looking at the clock on his nightstand, he sighed and realized that stopping for coffee was going to be necessary.
Socks. Watch. Shoes. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Water.
He checked himself in the mirror, flicked a piece of lint from his arm, and left his apartment. His car started quietly, and he pulled out of the garage. His favorite café was on the other side of town. Velaris was large, and traffic was heavy, but this was a necessary evil.
---
The Garden was a quiet, peaceful place, covered in plants, with the most beautiful artwork lining its cozy walls. Walking up to the register, he was greeted by the same young man that took his order every time. He was tall and handsome with rich auburn hair. He had a scar on his face across that drug across his eye, which was a shining golden prosthesis. His frame contrasted with the leaf patterned apron he wore, upon which sat his nametag. Lucien.
“Good morning sir. Your usual this morning?” Lucien’s voice was strong and clear, but not unkind.
“Yes, Lucien, thank you.” He replied, before adding, “Could I also get a lemon scone to go please?”
Lucien added the extra item to the bill and then looked up. “Can I get anything else for you today?”
“No thank you.”
He handed Lucien a twenty and told him to keep the change, then collected his items, his steaming drink hot enough to scald his tongue, and walked back to the door, before something familiar caught his eye. A large canvas painting he had never seen before was now hanging on the wall above a line of bookshelves. It was of the night sky. A flash of a peaceful night sky, the millions of stars twinkling behind the wisps of dark cirrus clouds. The familiarity of this piece was striking. It looked exactly like the glimpse of sky that showed up amid his slumber on a nightly basis. A sky that was more beautiful than any he’d ever seen, and as a self-proclaimed night owl, he had seen his fair few. The colors were deep, but warm and blanketed over the canvas in a way that made the painting look almost real. This artwork shouldn’t have felt as comforting as it did, but something about it felt like home.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Lucien had noticed him staring, interrupting his quiet appreciation.
He simply nodded, focused on trying to locate a placard or signature that would tell him the name of the artist. Lucien seemed to be able to tell what he was looking for because the next time he spoke he said, “All of the Garden’s art is made by the owner’s sister.”
He didn’t know the owner had a sister. Hell, he didn’t even know the owner. Her name was on the tip of his tongue. Ellie… Eliza… Elliana. Screw it.
“That’s nice.”
Lucien gave a weird look but said nothing further.
“Have a good day, Lucien.”
“You too, Sir.”
He took another look at the painting before walking out the door, and in small corner of the canvas he thought he saw a set of initials. FA.
---
The rest of his trip to work was spent thinking through every possibility of name beginning with “f” he could imagine. By the time he had made it to his office, he had come somewhat to terms with the fact that the possibilities were endless, and yet, that didn’t stop him. The man called up his favorite librarian, a good friend of his, Gwyn.
“Hello, Gwyn speaking.” Her voice was sing-songy and sweet.
“Gwyn, It’s Rhys, I need a favor.” His voice in comparison was deep and smooth, his velarian accent adding depth to each syllable.
“Of course, Rhys.” She responded, happily. “You know I’m always happy to help out.”
“I saw a painting today at a cafe. I need to know who made it.”
Rhys was blunt, cutting straight to his point. He wasn’t one particularly for bullshit or chitchat and Gwyn knew this.
She sighed, “Can you give me any more information than that? That could be anyone.”
His reply was quick, “It was at the Garden downtown. The café across from Rita’s if you’re familiar? The cashier said that all of the artwork was made by the owner’s sister.”
Gwyn responded with joy in her tone, “Rhys, the owner of the Garden is Elain Archeron, my best friend’s sister. I know exactly who the artist is.”
A sudden memory flooded Rhysand’s mind of bumping into Gwyn and her friends at the gym while working out with Cass and Az. He remembered Emery with her long braid. She often worked out with Cass and Az one-on-one. Of course, there was no forgetting, Gwyn. Az was head over heels for her, obvious to anyone with eyes that see and ears that hear. He would go home with a blush that rested on his cheekbones for hours. Finally, Rhys remembered the third girl. She wore all black and had her brown hair braided into a crown on top of her head. She was beautiful, if not somewhat harsh, and she and Rhys had not gotten along well. He was still bitter about some of the things she’d said. Nesta, he thought with a grimace.
“Rhys?” Gwyn’s voice filtered through his thoughts, “I asked you if her name sounded familiar?”
“I’m sorry, Gwyn. Could you repeat that? My coffee hasn’t fully kicked in yet.”
“The artist. I told you her name.”
“Oh yes. What was it?”
He was on the edge of his seat. Not literally of course, as he was pacing the floor of his office, wearing footprints into the plush carpet.
“Feyre. Feyre Archeron.”
Something inside him felt like it clicked. Like with the knowledge of this mystery woman’s name, new life had been breathed into him.
“Thank you, Gwyn. Have a good rest of your day.”
He hung up, settling – finally – down at his desk. He opened the nearest browser and did a quick search of the name. Feyre Archeron. Nothing immediately came up. No social media, no images that felt familiar. Really all he saw was the Garden’s website, and the Archeron Program, which seemed like Nesta’s work out program that she had designed to help people train on becoming “Valkyries”. Rhys had known that Nesta (who he was assuming was the third girl of Gwyn’s little friend group) was fit, but he hadn’t known that she was a fitness instructor and licensed dietician. Still, nothing about this mysterious third sister. Finally, after what felt like an eon of searching, the most he had come up with, was an obituary, stating the death of an older Archeron family member. Blah blah blah Archeron… A loving “papa”, he left behind three daughters who carry on his name. Nesta, Elain, and Feyre Archeron inherited all of their father’s assets in equal amount… blah blah blah.
Even just reading her name, Rhys felt his heart skip a beat. Shoving down his incessant wonderings about the woman and what she looked like, what her voice sounded like, if her eyes shone when she was happy… So maybe the shoving down wasn’t working as well as hoped. Rhys sent a quick text to Az, asking him to find “a woman by the name of Feyre Archeron.” The man responded within moments, confirming that he would.
Rhysand trusted Azriel to do the job, and to do it quickly. In all honesty, Az shouldn’t have even been awake right now considering the number of drinks that he’d had at Rita’s last night. He was lucky that Az had responded as fast as he did. He would know how to reach her soon. He would know how to reach Feyre, and he would know why this cauldron-damned painting feels so much like the answer to what is missing in his life.
He let her name roll off his tongue, relishing the way it felt on his lips.
“Feyre.”
He said it again. “Feyre.”
A smile appeared, not his usual smirk, but more genuine, showing the little dimples that he had in his cheeks.
See you soon, Feyre.